strangled by the red string
by transfletcher
Summary: "You're welcome to bring a guest, if you'd like," Mugear continues. Then, when Russell lifts an eyebrow, he says, with an infuriating waggle of his own, "I'm sure there's a lady friend of yours you'd like me to meet, eh?" (In which Russell needs a fake girlfriend, Winry volunteers, and it's not easy being queer. Modern AU.)


**Possibly the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, ever, including Greed!Russell. I wanted to post something before my classes started, after which I'll be spotty at most. Big semester coming up! Enjoy the fic; your feedback is my lifeblood!**

* * *

His spine straight, his jaw set, Russell Tringham walks right into the belly of the beast.

"Here are those reports, sir," he says, politely extending the file toward his boss. Mugear, glancing away from the game of solitaire on his computer screen, eyes the folder, accepts it after a pause, and graces Russell with the most nauseating of his fake smiles.

"Ah, thank you," he responds. He peruses the folder's contents for a brief moment, then sets it on the far corner of his desk atop a considerable pile of similar folders and documents. Russell wants to scream when he sees this; weeks from now, he'll catch the heat because Mugear lost that file and be expected to replicate its contents faster than he can say "unpaid overtime."

He makes none of this evident on his face, though, wearing only his nicest smile. In another moment, he's going to incline his head respectfully and take his leave—that is, escape to the relative peace of his tiny quasi-office until the hour hand reaches eight o'clock and releases him at last. At home, his biggest frustration will be making sure Ed doesn't steal all the fried rice or pick the bloodiest episode of _House_ to watch while they eat their takeout, curled up together on the sofa.

"Did you know, Russell," Mugear says, before his wistful domestic fantasy can progress further than that, "I'm hosting a little get-together at my home this Saturday, for a select few employees."

 _Count me the fuck out._

"Oh?" Russell says.

"I thought you might like to come." Mugear smiles at him again, baring his too-white teeth in a vaguely predatory fashion. That, more than anything in the words themselves, makes it very clear that Russell's not being offered a choice.

 _I'd rather split my tongue with a pair of safety scissors._

"I'd love to come, sir. Thank you so much," Russell tells him. Mugear knows he's only nineteen, but hopefully whoever's serving the champagne won't be informed and Russell can get buzzed enough to _not_ want to fling himself from the nearest high-rise before the party's over. "I look forward to it."

"You're welcome to bring a guest, if you'd like," Mugear continues. Then, when Russell lifts an eyebrow, he says, with an infuriating waggle of his own, "I'm sure there's a lady friend of yours you'd like me to meet, eh?"

 _Well, fuck me six ways to Sunday._

"I will certainly keep that in mind," Russell responds with a little laugh. "Thank you, sir."

Mugear dismisses him with a flick of his wrist, the one that makes Russell want to grab his hand and bend it back until it snaps. He sneaks a pitiful glance at the clock over the door on his way out. Five-thirty.

In his cubicle, he texts Ed two words: _"kill me."_

* * *

"The fuck's he mean by 'lady friend'?" Ed asks incredulously, after Russell finishes the latest of his tirades titled, "Why Mugear Should Be Exiled to Antarctica," with his repulsiveness, general obnoxiousness, and inability to be anything besides a happiness-leeching pustule in the sweaty crease of Satan's ass listed as bullets one through three.

"A girlfriend," Russell says in disgust. "He means a girlfriend." He takes an angry bite of an eggroll.

After a moment, Ed says, "You don't have a girlfriend."

"No shit," Russell retorts, wiping his mouth on his sleeve in as aggressive a manner as possible. "However, Mugear being Mugear, I don't think it's ever occurred to him that I might be anything less than one-hundred percent God-fearing heterosexual. Which, while it's what I want him to assume, my job relying on me being either one, straight and single, or two, straight and in a relationship, it couldn't be farther removed from the truth."

He worries at the rest of his eggroll with his fork, turning it to mush on his plate as his agitation starts to give way to anxiety. "I've told him I've been too busy with work and school to date much whenever he's asked about me seeing anyone, and he's never had any trouble believing that till now," Russell says. "What changed?"

"Probably nothing," Ed tells him at once. He gently takes Russell's plate and fork from him, sets them on the coffee table, and moves in close to take his hand. "He's just being a jackass, Russell, like always. Don't stress yourself out by reading into it. His head's so far up his own ass it's a wonder he ever knows what day it is."

"He's got to suspect," Russell insists, as, despite Ed's efforts, the idea really starts to take root. "I slipped up somewhere, I must have. He told me to bring a girl because he knows I'm gay and when I don't bring one, it'll be the proof he needs to let me go on the thinly veiled excuse that I don't 'demonstrate the qualities he expects in his employees' or what-the-fuck-ever and—"

"No, no, no," Ed cuts across him. Leaning up on his knees, he lets go of Russell's hand to frame his face between his palms, the prosthetic cool against Russell's cheek. "Russell. Babe. None of that's gonna happen and there's no way in hell he suspects a thing. What, do you skip around the office in lipstick and an Elton John t-shirt singing about how much you love boys, especially your super-mega-ultra sexy boyfriend who you live with and have lots of gay sex with?"

"Uh, no," Russell answers.

"Has he ever met said boyfriend?" Ed asks. "No, he hasn't. All the better, 'cause I'd have fucking killed him and you'd be out of a job. Have you ever even mentioned me by name?"

"No," Russell says, "but I have told him I have a roommate, which has got to be the most overused euphemism for a same-sex partner in the book—"

"Oh, bullshit, of course you have a roommate," Ed tells him. "What, he thinks you can pay rent by yourself? With _your_ salary? Please. Again: _head in ass_. There's nothing suspicious about a guy your age with a roommate, Russell."

"But—" He's running out of arguments, but the anxiety won't quit. Russell looks up at Ed with a helpless expression; Ed sinks down to wind his arms around his neck and hold him tight.

"But nothing. You're freaking out about nothing," Ed says. "Everything's gonna be okay, babe, I promise." Then, when Russell only tucks his face into Ed's shoulder and says nothing, Ed asks, "Would you feel better if you actually had someone to take with you?"

Russell pulls back to stare at him. "Like who?"

"Well, I could ask Winry," Ed says. "She's great at being fake-straight. She was my date to our senior prom, you know; my mom's probably still got the pictures. You look at us and you'd never guess that Winry snuck off soon after to make out with this girl Nellie and then finger her in the back of her car."

"A little too much information," Russell responds, "but otherwise—do you think she'd do it?"

"Sure she would," Ed says confidently. "Pretty sure she owes me a favor, she likes you, and she's also gay and employed, so it's not like she doesn't relate to your problem. 'Course, her boss isn't the sticky come-stain on the face of society that yours is, but still."

"And you'd ask her?" Russell says, as the crushing unease starts to lessen. He's not dreading the actual party any less, but it's certainly a weight off his shoulders. "You'd do that for me, Ed?"

"Uh, duh. I love you, stupid," Ed tells him, and kisses him, soft and sweet. After the small pause that follows, their foreheads pressed together, Ed adds gently, "If you do the dishes while I talk to her, I mean."

"You're the worst," Russell says.

"You fucking love me," Ed retorts, helping Russell gather the plates and silverware and take them to the sink. He retreats to the bedroom to call Winry while Russell cleans up, and returns just as he's started drying the dishes with a towel. Graciously, Ed finds another towel and lends a hand.

"She said sure, just let her know when," he tells him. "And can you take her to her girlfriend's house after. Sheska's not far from here, so it shouldn't be that big a hassle. That work for you?"

"Works for me," Russell says, buffing a plate until it gleams. Watching his foggy reflection, another concern slowly creeps over him. "Does that work for you, Ed?" he asks quietly.

"Why wouldn't it?" As he speaks, Ed leans up on his very tiptoes to put a glass away on the top shelf. Russell watches him struggle for a moment before he goes over, takes the glass, and places it with ease. His arms find their way around Ed's shoulders; his chin rests on the top of his head.

"You don't mind if I call Winry my girlfriend for a few hours, and hold her hand, and maybe kiss her?" Russell asks. "It's not like cheating?"

"Russell, if you were any gayer, you'd be shitting Lady Gaga CDs," Ed replies, huffing out a laugh. "And Winry does so much fucking scissoring you might as well call her the sewing section at Hobby Lobby. I don't think I need to worry about you two running away together."

"I don't know," Russell says, cracking a grin. "Maybe all we needed to be straight was to find each other."

He holds on tight, laughing, when Ed tries to indignantly pull out of his arms. It turns into a sort of wrestling match, which then dissolves into long, warm kisses up against the kitchen counter, Ed's arms around his neck, one of Russell's hands tangled in his hair while the other's splayed across his back.

With this to come home to, he can survive the one night.

* * *

A few days later, he's singing a very different tune.

Ed whistles when Russell comes into the living room, wearing slacks, a dinner jacket, and a very resigned expression. "I always forget how well you clean up," Ed says fondly. He crosses over to straighten Russell's collar and muss his carefully combed hair, which makes Russell squint at him. "Oh, come on, sour-face. It might actually be fun," he tells him, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

"Hardly," Russell deadpans. "You've never been to one of these things, Ed. It'll be a bunch of stiff, uptight office people milling around pretending they want to interact with each other for about an hour before everyone finally caves and starts getting drunk on champagne. I, on the other hand, will be stone-cold sober, as I'm forced to watch the violent and cruel death of the itty-bitty remainder of my faith in humanity."

"I also forget how optimistic you can be," Ed says flatly. The hand playing with Russell's hair cups his cheek instead. "Hey. It's just a few hours, Russell. You'll be okay, promise."

"I wish I could take you," Russell tells him, a little sadly. His actual significant other should be his plus-one; he shouldn't be waiting with dread clenching his stomach for his boyfriend's friend to show up, so he can parade her in front of his boss to put to rest any doubts he has about Russell's sexual orientation.

Ed's expression tells him he hears all of this in Russell's voice. Still, he only says, with a small smile, "I'd gladly suffer with you if I could. As it is." As if on cue, there's a knock on the door.

"That'll be your date," Ed says, and goes over to greet her. In a periwinkle blue cocktail dress and kitten heels, her hair piled at the back of her head but for two long strands that frame her face, Winry, Russell must admit, looks stunning. Her frown only mars the image somewhat.

"Am I too dressed up?" she asks. "Ed didn't tell me how formal this thing would be."

"You look fine," Russell tells her. "You look great, actually."

"Thank you," she says.

It's very awkward. Since he started dating Ed, Russell's spent a lot of time with Winry, but this is different; they've always hung out with other mutual friends present, Ed and Al and others, never the two of them alone. They certainly haven't shown a fraction of the physical affection required if Mugear's to believe she's his girlfriend. The prospect seems to make Winry as uneasy as it does Russell.

"I guess there's no point delaying the inevitable," he says, trying to inject some cheer into his voice, to little avail. He's having rather depressing flashbacks to high school. Hopefully Winry won't take it personally. "Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Winry answers. Maybe she's thinking the same thing. She takes his arm when he offers it; it's not as bad as it could be, but it's definitely not particularly pleasant. He's very much considering calling in sick. Or dead.

"You two actually look kind of cute together," Ed muses, watching them with a hand at his chin. Russell glares at him, while Winry gives him the finger. Ed rolls his eyes, but he's surprisingly gentle when he steps forward and puts his arms around Russell's neck, squeezing tight. "Just a couple of hours. You'll be okay, I promise," he murmurs near his ear. "Be over before you know it. I'll wait up."

Russell feels the slightest twinge of guilt, making him stay up late, but he ignores it; he won't be able to talk Ed out of it and he already knows how much he'll want to see him when this thing's finally over. "Thank you," he says. He tucks a lock of Ed's hair behind his ear, cups the back of his head, and brings him close for a kiss. No kiss with Ed ever seems to last long enough, but this one feels especially short, all things considered. It's Ed who pulls away first; for once, the rational one, when Russell wants to employ rationality the least. Figures. Reluctantly, Russell lets him go. Winry watches the pair of them nonchalantly.

"Do I get a kiss?" she asks Ed.

"You can kiss my ass," Ed tells her, and then laughs. Winry snorts inelegantly through her nose; Russell rolls his eyes.

"On second thought, it's good that you're my date rather than the actual twelve-year-old I call my boyfriend," he says to Winry. "Well, let's go. Your chariot awaits."

"You mean _my_ chariot. That's my fucking car!" Ed calls after them, as Russell wiggles his fingers goodbye and Winry blows him a kiss.

Once the door to the apartment shuts, the levity disappears pretty quickly.

Just a few hours, Russell reminds himself. He can do this.

"The food better be fucking fantastic," Winry says.

* * *

Once he's shut off the ignition, Russell takes a moment to heave a sigh, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back against the seat. Then he opens them to face an expectant-looking Winry.

"A few things," he tells her. "First, as you might've heard from Ed or else guessed for yourself by virtue of me needing a beard for his office party, my boss is a piece of shit. Like, irredeemable, disgusting, smelly shit not even flies would touch. I'm talking racist-as-fuck, gender-equality-beliefs-from-the-forties, even-Republicans-think-he's-homophobic, the whole package. You're not going to enjoy yourself tonight, I assure you."

"Will there be alcohol?" Winry asks bluntly.

"Yes," Russell responds, "but please don't get drunk. Please. If I have to face this sober, I really don't want to face it alone." Winry sighs, but nods in agreement. A little hesitantly, Russell reaches out and takes her hand. "And thank you," he says, quiet and solemn. "For coming with me. It means a lot."

Somehow, she manages to make her smile both wry and reassuring. "We're friends, Russell," she says. "And, believe me, I've dealt with shitheads like this. We all have. It shouldn't have to be this way, but it is, so we'll deal with it like we always have: together." When she squeezes his hand, Russell feels a little less anxious. He even cracks a smile.

"Come on, _babe_ ," Winry says then, drawling the word. She opens her door. "Let's go face the music."

Arm in arm, they cross the chilly parking lot and enter Mugear's house.

A porter takes their coats in the foyer, bows deeply, and goes to stow them. Winry's eyes are wide as they follow him; they grow wider still as Russell takes her through the house.

"Fancy," she murmurs, eyeing the paintings, the chandelier, the quiet, polite servants milling about. She spends several more moments admiring an Oriental rug. "Talk about top of the food chain."

Russell's smile feels more like a grimace on his face. "As you can undoubtedly tell," he tells her quietly, in case the man himself should be in earshot, "my _esteemed_ boss isn't the most frugal guy you'll meet. He delights in wasting taxpayer money on garbage like this, though he'll squawk like an angry ostrich if you even suggest raising the minimum wage." He huffs. "I bet there's not even a recycling bin here," he mutters.

Winry puts a hand to her heart. "Oh, God forbid."

"I detect sarcasm," Russell says crossly. "Do you know how many thousands of pounds of reusable and recyclable material are put in landfills every y—"

He shuts his mouth with a sudden click: as they're nearing the dining hall, he catches sight of Mugear lingering outside. When he spots Russell and Winry, he beams so broadly one might think Russell were his long-lost son. Russell tries his hardest to return that smile.

"Just when I think you weren't going to make it!" he says jovially, walking over to greet them. Russell gives a little laugh.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, sir."

Mugear's eyes travel from Russell to Winry, clinging delicately to his arm and watching Mugear with polite interest. Mugear's grin gets decidedly slyer. "And who is this lovely creature?" he asks.

It's a damn good thing Russell couldn't bring himself to eat before this, because otherwise, he'd have probably thrown up on Mugear's shoes.

Winry, to her credit, barely reacts, though Russell has to give her arm a gentle touch to keep her from introducing herself. Wouldn't want Mugear to think she's an independent person or anything. "This, sir," Russell says, hoping he isn't overstepping a boundary by taking his arm from Winry's to slide it around her waist, "is my girlfriend, Winry Rockbell. I hope you don't mind me bringing her."

"Not at all, not at all!" Mugear laughs. Winry joins in, a dainty chuckle that doesn't sound genuine to Russell's ears, though Mugear doesn't seem to suspect a thing.

"It's wonderful to meet you, sir," she says, extending a hand to shake. "Russell's told me so many wonderful things about you." With this, she leans into his side, and glances up at him with such a doting expression Russell has to hide a small double-take. He covers it by brushing some hair out of her eyes; she even gets a little pink. Ed wasn't kidding when he said Winry was good at this.

Then Russell looks back to Mugear with a sheepish expression, like he's just remembering that he's there. Mugear doesn't look remotely annoyed; in fact, he seems very satisfied at this very heterosexual display of affection.

"I wish I could say the same thing about you, my dear!" Mugear tells her. He gives Russell a gently chastising look. "Why haven't I heard anything about you?"

Shit, Russell thinks. He hadn't planned for this. Winry speaks up before Russell can think of a convincing lie.

"We haven't been together very long, sir," she explains. "Oh, we've been friends for years, of course, and there's always been _something_ between us—" she gives a tinkling laugh, "—but this silly man kept trying to convince himself he didn't have any time for me! Too busy with school, too busy with work, too busy with his friends…" Winry's fingers travel teasingly up his arm; her lips are curved in a mischievous smirk. "It took me ages to get him to accept that we're just meant to be."

"You poor thing," Mugear says with a simper. "Well, you know how we men are with our feelings, Winry. I'm certainly glad you managed to get Russell to see sense, though. Why, I doubt I could have denied you for very long!"

Winry Rockbell must possess incredibly willpower for not shuddering at that. Laughing at it, even when he doesn't remotely mean it, makes Russell feel ill.

"Guilty as charged, sir," Russell responds, giving Winry's waist a squeeze. Mugear gives a hearty laugh.

"Well, I look forward to talking to you more, Winry," Mugear tells her, while she nods with a gracious smile. To Russell, he says, "The two of you make yourselves comfortable, while I make sure everything is sufficient for dinner in, oh, half an hour or so. Do enjoy yourselves."

"Of course, sir," Russell says, and Mugear smiles and walks past them back into the foyer. Russell leads Winry into the dining hall.

"You weren't fucking kidding," she deadpans.

"Tell me about it."

"Maybe when my skin stops crawling."

With Mugear gone, Russell thinks it's safe to return to the linked arms, which doesn't require as much forced physical contact as his arm around her waist. Winry isn't complaining.

"What do you think, though?" he asks, as they wander in search of refreshments. Russell's mouth feels like sandpaper, and Winry insists she's starving. "Did he seem convinced?"

"Oh, totally," Winry says easily, tugging his arm as she spots a table. "It went well, I think." A smirk flits across her lips. "You grabbing my ass might've helped."

"Hey, I wasn't trying to grab your ass," Russell says. "I'm used to hugging Ed and his waist is a lot lower than yours. Sue me." He accepts the glass of sparkling water she hands him, though he nearly gags when he takes a sip. Ugh. Is regular water too peasanty for Mugear? "You really did do great, though," Russell tells her honestly, as Winry spreads pâté over a cracker. "Like, really. Thank you. I'm sorry for—well, everything."

Winry eats the cracker whole so as not to smear her lipstick, putting her hand daintily over her mouth to hide how it makes her cheeks bulge. When she's done chewing, she says, "It's okay. I mean, it's not, but it's not your fault and it's what I signed up for. Like Ed said, just a few hours, right? And free food. It could be worse." She prepares another cracker, this time holding it out to Russell. "Eat. You'll feel better. Unless you want me to feed it to you."

"I draw the line at feeding each other, fake relationship or not," Russell says firmly. "I don't even feed my actual partner, largely because he's a bottomless pit and he'd probably take my hand off."

"God, right?" Winry says. "I swear he eats like he'll never see food again. And his manners, ugh. Does he take food off your plate?"

"Literally all the time," Russell answers. "Sometimes, I'll make myself food, and while I'm making it I'll ask like twelve times, 'Ed, do you want anything?', and each time he'll be like, 'Oh, no, no, I'm good.' And then once I settle down with it, he takes like half of it anyway."

"Or he'll sit and look at you with those starving orphan-child eyes," Winry says disdainfully. "Begging for scraps like a stray kitten."

"Regrettably, I've yet to learn how to resist the kitten eyes," Russell tells her. "I'm working on it."

"You'll probably never be able to resist the kitten eyes," Winry says wisely. "That's what love is."

Russell chuckles, but the smile fades as he casts a cursory glance around the room and spots Mugear hobnobbing with some coworkers who must be from another department, since Russell barely recognizes them. They're all holding flutes of champagne or wine, which makes Russell stupidly jealous. He'd kill for some wine right now. Or maybe something stronger than wine—maybe tequila, or some vodka. Or rubbing alcohol. Or drain cleaner. Before he realizes it, he's scowling.

"He fucking pisses me off," Russell mutters.

Winry, eating the second cracker, blinks in surprise. "Ed?" she says through a mouthful.

"No, no, Mugear," Russell clarifies. "I just—" He doesn't care for pâté, but he makes careful work of putting some on one of the fancy whole-wheat crackers just to give himself something to do with his hands. "He's literally the embodiment of everything I've worked so hard to escape," he says quietly. "Everything he thinks about gender, and sexuality—that was _me_ some four or five years ago. Ninth grade, tenth grade me was all about 'I just don't want gay people to shove it in my face,' or 'I just don't think gay people should get married,' or 'they should really keep it in the bedroom,' like, you name it. It's kind of embarrassing to think about. And it kind of makes me feel guilty, because who knows how many people around me I hurt spouting that rhetoric."

"You grew," Winry insists. "You changed. And it's not like you weren't hurting yourself, too. You can't fix the past, Russell. All you can do is learn from it, and that's what you did. You shouldn't feel guilty for swallowing what society was spoon-feeding you. You should feel proud because you overcame it."

"I guess," Russell says noncommittally. He studies the pâté cracker he's holding. "But since I've already done the learning, I just want to shut away that really painful part of my past. And this asshole's constantly reminding me of it, and then ramps it up another ten fucking notches, with his fucking—" he puts on a poor imitation of Mugear's voice, "'men do this, women do that, gender is a biological thing and definitely not a social construct' bullshit. 'Men aren't good with their feelings,' like—no, fuck you. I'm not bad at dealing with my feelings because I'm a guy, I'm bad at dealing with my feelings because I started repressing them at a young age since my emotionally neglectful father wasn't going to validate them either way."

He angrily shoves the cracker in his mouth; he cringes a little as he tastes the pâté, but he still chews determinedly and swallows. As he's wiping his mouth, he notices Winry staring at him a little concernedly.

"Uh, too deep?" Russell asks.

"A little," she says. "But I think I get it. I'm really sorry he's so shitty and I'm really sorry you have to deal with him as much as you do. I wish I could tell you he'll get better, he'll change, but I know he won't; people like that, they never do. But you have. It's like you said, you're so different than you were when you were fourteen or fifteen. Not even just that; you're different from when we first _met_ , what, a year and a half ago? You're so much more open now. You're warmer, you let yourself be gentler, you smile more. You're not as prickly or defensive. Every day you're growing and changing, and that makes you ten times the person Mugear is. Try to take comfort in that."

Russell finds himself blinking at her, both touched and surprised. After a moment, he says, "I didn't realize you were paying so much attention to me." Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, "You're not actually in love with me, right?"

Winry snorts indignantly, shoving her elbow into his ribs. "God, you and Ed are fucking perfect for each other," she says irritably, and Russell laughs.

* * *

Mugear has exactly one redeeming quality: he knows how to serve a meal. Even the salad makes Russell regret coming marginally less. Unfortunately, fantastic as it is, dinner brings with it the enormous downside that Russell's expected to engage in conversation during it, not just stuff his face. Worse still, Mugear makes good on his word earlier and decides to sit right by Russell and Winry. It's almost enough to make Russell lose his appetite. Almost.

"You said you and Russell have been friends for years, Winry?" Mugear asks cheerfully, unfolding his napkin in his lap. Winry takes a sip of water before she answers. Her manners, Russell must admit, are exquisite; she makes Ed look like an underfed warthog by comparison.

"Yes, sir," she says, giving Russell a fond look. "A, uh, mutual friend introduced us, actually. Our friend Edward."

 _Why_ did she have to do that? Russell resists the urge to kick her under the table. Why would she namedrop Ed, whose existence Russell has worked very hard to make sure Mugear doesn't know about? It takes great effort to force a smile.

"Yes, Edward and I grew up together, you see," Winry continues. "He was sweet on me for years, but he was never my type, sadly; he's a little—" She makes a gesture to indicate shortness, and Mugear laughs. Russell, who considers the day a waste if he hasn't commented on Ed's smallness at least twice, grits his teeth. "And Russell and Ed met in college. They hit it off right away, became best friends, you know," Winry says. "I started seeing Russell a lot more once he and Ed moved in togeth—"

This time Russell _does_ kick her. It's too late, though; the damage is done. Winry manages to turn her yelp into a passable cough. "So sorry, sir, must've swallowed wrong."

"It's no problem, dear, no problem at all." Mugear chuckles. "So, Edward introduced you to Russell here and he snatched you from right under his nose? Ha! Russell Tringham, you sly dog!" Russell hopes his look of discomfort comes across as mere bashfulness.

From one course to the next, Mugear insists on keeping up a conversation, which doesn't do Russell's digestion any favors; a shame, considering the quality of the food. A thick, creamy carrot soup, crisp green salad, lamb chops and garlicky mashed potatoes. There's cheese and fruit on toothpicks to cleanse their palates before dessert. It's around this time that Mugear asks Winry what she goes to school for.

"Engineering, sir," she tells him. "Biomechanical engineering, to be specific." She's parted her lips to continue, but Mugear's surprised little laugh stops her short, her eyes wide in her face.

"Biomechanical engineering!" he repeats. "Oh, wow, that's a doozy. Doubt I have the brains for that myself. It'd be especially difficult for a woman, I should think? Your minds aren't particularly scientifically inclined. Though, more power to you for pushing through that, I suppose." Mugear chuckles, apparently having amused himself.

At long last, he's touched a nerve. Winry uses her napkin to cover her face under the guise of wiping it; from his angle, however, Russell can see her expression, and she looks deeply insulted, her cheeks flushed with anger. Abruptly, she stands.

"If you'll pardon me, I need to use the little girls' room," she says tightly.

"I'll show you where it is," Russell says, also rising. Mugear, totally blasé, smiles amiably.

"Of course, of course."

Russell follows Winry out of the dining hall and into the foyer, where she storms past the porter and throws open the front door. The wind makes her shiver in her thin dress, but she still crosses the parking lot before Russell can catch up to her. Her chest is heaving, her face tightly pinched. Russell doesn't know what to say.

"He thinks ecology is a soft option, if that makes you feel better," he tries. Winry glowers at him. After a pause, where Winry wraps her arms around herself and scowls at the ground, Russell gives it another go. "I—I'm sorry. I'm sorry he said that. You know he's wrong, right?"

"Of course I do," she snaps, but Russell doesn't miss the thickness in her voice. He hesitates.

"Can—can I hug you? Is that a thing I can do?" he asks. For a moment, Winry just stares. Then she steps forward, and Russell puts his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head while she presses her forehead into his chest. Unlike all their other displays of affection, this one feels a lot more natural. Nothing stilted, nothing forced, nothing to prove. It communicates the sort of deep understanding that words just can't.

"Can I go slit his tires?" Winry murmurs into his shirt.

Russell laughs. "Maybe later."

* * *

Back inside, Winry's much quieter, and Russell takes care to direct conversation away from tricky subjects. Their "relationship," Winry's choice of study, Ed. After an agonizing twenty minutes, which Russell spends picking at a slice of cake he's too worked up to appreciate, the table is finally cleared and the guests mill about the dining hall, their chatter seeming more stilted than earlier. This is around the time people start getting tipsy. Sure enough, when Russell comes back from a bathroom break, he finds Winry halfway through a flute of champagne.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, stopping her hand as she tries to take another sip. "You said you weren't going to drink!"

"I said I wasn't going to get drunk," Winry corrects him. "Come on, Russell. There's maybe a teaspoon of bubbly in that entire vat of champagne. One glass isn't going to get me drunk."

After three glasses, she's definitely drunk.

She mostly hangs on to her motor skills, but her speech is slurred and her poise is out the window. Luckily, half the room seems more or less just as buzzed, so she blends in, at least. Still, Russell isn't a very patient babysitter.

"Can we go home yet?" Winry whines in his ear. "I'm tired of being straight. I'm tired, Russell."

"I know you are," Russell says distractedly, as he pushes a glass of water into her hands. "Drink that."

"I wanna take a nap," Winry insists.

He supposes he could give her the keys and let her sleep in the backseat of the car. On second thought, Russell isn't sure it's a good idea to leave a drunk Winry alone, especially in a parking lot soon to be crawling with gross old men.

"Later, Winry. We can leave soon, promise."

"Russell, I gotta pee."

"Okay. I'll take you to the bathroom." He supports her with an arm under her shoulders and heads that way, ducking through the crowd staring determinedly forward.

"I miss Sheska," Winry complains.

"I _know_ ," Russell says.

He's treated to a garbled spiel on just how adorable Sheska looks with her glasses—like an actual puppy, but human, isn't that amazing?—as he guides her to the bathroom down the hall, where he stands outside the door while he waits for her to finish. As she's doing her business, Russell, on impulse, pulls his phone out and calls Ed.

"I literally wish I were dead," he says, in lieu of a hello.

"Was gonna ask if you're on your way home, but I'm guessing that's a no," Ed responds.

"In an unexpected and cruel act of betrayal, Winry is drunk."

"Why aren't you?" Ed asks him.

"Because I want to have sex later," Russell answers. "Really loud, crazy passionate gay sex, preferably on the floor or up against a wall or over a table. Or possibly all three. Also, you know, safe driving and shit."

"I support all of these things," Ed says. "When can you leave?"

"I'm carefully plotting our escape," Russell tells him. "Almost half the people here are in the same boat as the traitor currently babbling to the toilet paper holder about her girlfriend's freckles. I'm estimating that when sixty percent of the room is buzzed, people will start heading home. I'm gonna go when the crowd's thinned out by about a quarter. Doesn't make me seem too desperate to leave, but it lets me off the hook before anyone starts getting too wild."

Ed growls. "I love it when you talk nerdy to me."

"Keep it in your pants, Elric," Russell says. "It'll be a half-hour, forty-five minutes at the most. Soon, though, I promise." He hears a small thud. "I'm going to make sure Winry didn't just fall in the toilet," he says. "I'll text you when I'm on my way home. Thank you so much for waiting up. You're literally an angel."

"I'll remember you saying that."

"I love you so much, you're the light of my life, and try not to starve because you can't reach any of the cabinets to get yourself a snack."

"Oh, fuck you," Ed says, so affectionately it's barely an insult.

"Maybe later, if you're good." Satisfied, Russell hangs up.

Winry staggers out of the bathroom. "Can we go home?" she asks again, as she stumbles and Russell hurriedly catches her. So much for motor skills.

"Let me see if anyone's left yet," he tells her.

"And then you and Ed can fuck," Winry hiccups. She grins crookedly. "I heard you talking when I was in there, Russell. You were saying _nasty things_." She giggles.

"Guilty as charged," he deadpans, and escorts her back to the dining hall.

* * *

Sooner than he could have hoped, the hall begins to slowly empty. Russell's quick to follow the crowd out. He deposits Winry in the car—by this point, she's begun to drift off—locks it tight, and goes to thank Mugear through his teeth for the lovely evening. "I should put Winry to bed; she had a little too much champagne, I'm afraid," Russell explains, while Mugear laughs jovially.

"Take care, Russell," he says, clapping him on the back.

Good fucking riddance, Russell thinks.

It's Sheska who gets to tuck Winry to bed, after Russell half-carries her down her driveway and knocks on her door. "This," he says, shoving Winry unceremoniously into the startled Sheska's arms, "is yours. She'll want water and ibuprofen in the morning." He hands Sheska Winry's heels. "Have a nice night."

"Bye, friend," Winry mumbles. Russell pats her head.

"Goodnight, Winry."

By the time he gets home himself, it's nearly midnight, and he's completely, totally exhausted. The apartment's pitch black when he walks in. At first, Russell wonders with a pang if Ed went to bed after all, but then he hears him stirring on the couch, sitting up blearily at the sound of Russell's footsteps.

"That you, Russell?" Ed mumbles.

"No," Russell says. "I'm a burglar. Some tall, blond asshole left his keys ten feet from the front door."

"Sounds like the idiot I'm in love with." With some effort, Ed rises and circles the couch with his arms held out; Russell immediately steps into them, dropping his head onto Ed's shoulder. "Did you have fun?" Ed asks gently.

"The kind of fun that makes me want to disembowel myself with a salad fork," Russell answers.

"Aw, babe." Ed pets his hair, while Russell nuzzles his neck and hugs him tight. They've been apart longer than this, but with how awful it was, the evening felt more like years; Russell feels deprived of him.

"Are we postponing floor-table-wall sex?" Ed asks.

"If you can stomach the disappointment," Russell murmurs back. He's too tired; besides, it isn't sex he wants right now, just closeness. Ed seems to understand, because he takes Russell's hand and brings him to the bedroom, where Russell makes short work of undressing and crawling into bed. Lying down, the height difference is easier to work around—Russell can rest his cheek over Ed's chest without hurting his neck, even if his feet nearly reach the end of the bed. Ed gently scratches his back with his fingernails, up and down his spine and in little circles around his shoulders. It's very nice. Very soothing. Russell sighs.

"If I never have to see that man again, it'll be too soon," he mumbles. Ed already knows who he's talking about.

"You won't be in college forever, Russell. Once you get your degree, you can get a better job and tell that capitalist fuck to kiss your ass on your way out the door."

Badmouthing Mugear behind his back is Russell's favorite way to cope with him, but for some reason, it isn't working tonight. He nuzzles closer against Ed, trying to ward off rising anxiety.

"And if my next boss is just as bad?" he asks.

"Who the hell could be worse than Mugear, who ten out of ten would agree even Gandhi would punch in the balls?"

"A lot of people," Russell answers, a little shortly. "The world is full of people like Mugear, Edward. Full of people who think immigrants are stealing our jobs and there are only two genders, and being queer is just a phase or something disgusting that needs to be cured, and women belong in the kitchen and can't be kickass biomechanical engineers or what-the-fuck-ever they choose to do. There are people who want to hurt people who think different, or who _are_ different." At this point, he's pressed so closely into Ed's t-shirt that his words are muffled, but he can't bring himself to pull away even an inch. "I'm different, Ed," Russell murmurs. "The people I love are different. You, and Fletcher, and Al and Winry and Sheska and so many others. We joke and we rant and we do our best to change things, but sometimes it's just overwhelming—and scary."

Years of self-doubt tell him that Ed will scoff at this display of vulnerability. Instead, after a pause as he digests it, Ed squeezes his arms tight and presses his lips to the top of Russell's head. "I wish I could protect you from them," he says softly against his hair. "Protect all of you. Protect everyone."

"I know." Russell reaches around to rub his back. "Just stay close to me. That's enough."

"Russell, babe, you're fucking stuck with me now. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

"What if I made a short joke?" Russell asks.

"Defying all logic, our love is now strong enough to withstand a short joke," Ed says. "Though it _will_ end with you sleeping on the couch."

"What if I made a _whole lot_ of short jokes?" Russell persists.

"Now you're pushing it," he replies.

"Your tolerance is disappointingly small," Russell says. "Though I guess that suits you. Heh, get it?"

"Shut the fuck up, Russell."

"You also have a very _short_ temper."

"I mean it," Ed says, though Russell can hear him trying not to laugh. "I'm about to kick your ass."

"Can you even reach my ass?"

"Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of you still being a teenager," Ed tells him.

"Shut up! I'll be twenty in four months!" Russell snaps.

"And in _two_ months, I'll be twenty-one, and you'll still be nineteen," Ed says smugly. "You're literally an infant."

"Maybe you're getting too old to keep up with me, then," Russell shoots back. "Maybe I should find someone younger and hotter."

"Oh, please. You can't get enough of this old geezer," Ed responds, which, all right, is true. Russell huffs in surrender and holds him tighter.

"I definitely wouldn't mind getting old with you, Edward," he murmurs.

"Of course you wouldn't. Have you _seen_ me?" Ed asks him. "I'm gonna be the hottest fucking old person ever." When Russell doesn't respond, waiting for Ed to see the larger implication of his words, Ed says, his voice softer, "You really mean that?"

"Yeah," Russell murmurs. "I mean that. Whatever I end up doing with my life, I know I want you to be there, Ed, every step of the way. I want you there when I finish college and quit my shitty job, and I want you there when I get a better one, and whatever the hell happens after that. Maybe we get an actual house, I don't know. A little house in the suburbs, with nice neighbors and a pretty backyard. We can—"

"Hold the fucking phone," Ed interrupts. "We're living in the suburbs? I'm sorry, when did we become _Modern Family_?"

"It's close enough to other people to not feel like the middle of nowhere but far enough from the city to not be loud and insane!" Russell says indignantly. "Fuck off with your suburb hate. It's my fantasy, so we're in the fucking suburbs. _With_ a dog."

"You don't like dogs," Ed tells him.

"Well, no, but how are we supposed to be disgustingly domestic without pets?" Russell asks.

"We could get fish," Ed suggests.

"Or lizards."

"Or a Komodo dragon."

Russell pulls out of his arms to look him in the face. "That would be so badass," he says.

"I think Mugear might like to meet our Komodo dragon," Ed says slyly.

"Mm. I think so, too." He snuggles back into Ed's side, content slowly washing over him. "We'll have a nice house. Not too big, not too small. There's big windows everywhere so it's full of natural light, with pretty gauzy curtains that flutter gently in the breezes—"

"We're gonna need thick curtains, babe," Ed cuts in. "What, you want people looking in while we're having sex, which we will do, in every room of the house?"

"Honestly, I don't care if people look at our silhouettes while we fuck."

"Is that a Halsey song?" Ed asks.

Russell smacks him.

"Okay, I can play this game, too," Ed says. "Uh, so the neighbors have kids, but they're not asshole kids. They're, like, super awesome kids. And we're literally their favorite people. They make us crafts and shit and we hang 'em all over our walls and on the fridge."

"And we have a swing on the front porch," Russell murmurs, starting to succumb to sleep. "We sit in it and just hold each other and rock and watch the sun go down.

"And I'll be like, 'See that? That's another day we made it through.' If it was a good day, that's great, because now we've got more to look forward to. And if it was a not-good day, that's okay, too, because tomorrow will be better," Ed tells him quietly, rubbing comforting circles into his back. "And then you'll lean up and kiss me and everything will be great."

"Mm," Russell agrees, closing his eyes. The anxiety's fled, and he feels at peace.

Then a word snags, and he sits up to stare at Ed with his eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry, 'lean up'?" he repeats.

Ed goes redder than a traffic light.

"Shut the fuck up," he says.

"Were you imagining you're taller than me?" Russell asks in disbelief.

"Fucking—fuck off, Russell!" Ed yelps.

"Oh, my God, that's adorable. You're adorable," Russell says.

"Literally fuck you," Ed says. He sits up. "I'm leaving. Delete my number."

"Oh, come here," Russell laughs, tightening his arms around Ed and tugging him back down.

"Nope, it's too late, I'm blocking you on all my social media and also filing a restraining order," Ed insists.

"Even if I suggest we have our floor-table-wall sex in the morning?" Russell says.

"Okay, maybe _after_ the floor-table-wall sex," Ed allows. "But after that, you're fucking out, kid."

"Sure." Russell closes his eyes again. "Okay, I'm beat. Sleep time. Love you, Ed."

"You're the worst person ever," Ed says.

"You fucking love me."

"Debatable."

Russell cracks an eye open. "Do you love me, Edward?"

"Uh, duh. I wouldn't put up with you for any other reason."

Russell's eyes are open again. "You don't just 'put up' with me, right, Ed?"

"Oh, no, don't give me that," Ed says. "Now I have to tell you how great you are. And that's not what you deserve to hear, because you're terrible."

"Yet also great, somehow," Russell finishes.

"The duality of man."

"Go to sleep, Ed," he mumbles, nuzzling his shoulder. "It's too late for this."

"Ugh, fair." Ed cranes his neck to press a kiss between his eyes. "Love you. Sleep tight."

In his bed, in his arms, Russell feels warm and safe. The steady beat of his heart under his ear says that the things he fears are things he can survive—things he won't face alone. That's enough. That's everything.

"For being so little," Russell mumbles tiredly, "you're a really great big spoon."

"I'm gonna smother you in your sleep," Ed says.


End file.
